


Blue Eyes Like Electricity

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ALL THE POST-SCRATCH, Angst, Con Air, F/M, It gets turned into a movie, John Crocker - Freeform, M/M, No but this is my last post-scratch fic, Not lying by the way, Oneshot, Post-Scratch, Sad with a Happy Ending, So much angst, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff - Freeform, poor Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is the first, ocean blue. The second, pale blue. And the third, sky blue.</p><p>But none of them have the eyes you yearn for -- blue eyes -- like two balls of electricity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Eyes Like Electricity

**Author's Note:**

> Shuuhsh. I wanted to write post-scratch Dave because I wrote post-scratch John.

You’re only twelve when you lose your virginity. It’s awkward and fumbly, as a first time should be, and you can’t even remember what the girl’s name is. You know she has a few classes with you, and she has some of the messiest black hair you’ve ever seen and bright, blue eyes. She wears thick-rimmed glasses, but those are discarded on your handmade bedside table. When it’s all said and done, the two of you cuddle; you hate affection, but she did just lose her innocence to you.

She looks up at you through long lashes and you realize her eyes aren’t the right shade, not the one you’re searching for. They’re ocean blue, deep but not bright, not like two balls of blue electricity. “I think I want to be your girlfriend,” she says, letting out a wistful sigh. You blurt out that her eyes aren’t right, and the look she gives you is a mix of heartbroken and rageful.

“What do you mean by that?” She snips rather rudely, tugging her body away from yours.  You shrug -- even you aren’t sure what that means. In a flash she’s out of your bed and pulling her clothes on, and right before she slams the door to your bedroom and almost shakes the foundation she flips you the bird.

You fall asleep curled into yourself, and you dream of blue eyes like electricity.

 

* * *

 

You’re eighteen when you make it big with your crudely drawn comic, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, and whereas everyone in Texas used to know you as “Dave Strider, the troublemaker” they now know you as “Dave Strider, the celebrity.” There’s talk of it being turned into a film, and you couldn’t be happier; you have been working at it for four years, after all. It’s about time something good came of it.

You have relationship problems. Everytime you find a nice girl or guy and you think you might be able to stay with them, you always start to think that their eyes aren’t the right shade and whenever you tell them this, they scoff and leave. Instead, you settle for having flings. You start to notice they all have black hair and blue eyes, and most of them major in biology at the college a few blocks from your shitty apartment.

You don’t have much time to yourself anymore, with your comic growing popularity and spreading like wildfire. When you finally set aside some time, you decide to go see a movie. Con Air was just released, so you choose that one, even though you think it looks absolutely awful and you know you’re going to hate it.

You see it an over-abundant amount of times in the theater, and you cry everytime. You buy it when it comes out on DVD, and you spend a large chunk of your profit buying the filthy bunny from it. You aren’t sure why you do, but you buy it a glass case and put a few swords in front of it to make sure no one will ever touch it.

 

* * *

 

When you’re twenty-five, they make Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff into a movie. It rakes in all of the dough the first week it’s in, and the second, and the third. You meet a variety of celebrities and you are showered in gifts, one being a pair of shades from Stiller himself (he tells you yours are beginning to show their age -- you know they are) and you trash your old ones and replace them with those.

You have a lot of fans, each more obsessed with you than the last. You tell yourself you aren’t going to end up with a fan, that you aren’t going to be _that celebrity_ , but when a stuttery and flustered woman approaches you and asks for your autograph you offer to take her out to dinner. She looks shocked, but agrees nonetheless. You are Dave Strider, after all; why would anyone say no to you?

She’s only 5’1, far beneath your height of 5’7. Her hair is black and unruly, her eyes are pale blue, and she wears thick-rimmed glasses. She tells you that she’s majoring in biology, but that she also likes to be comedic every now and then. You ask her name once you finish dinner, and she tells you it’s Jeannie Pierce, but you can call her Jean because everyone does.

You tell her okay, and ask her out on a second date. She says yes.

You don’t tell her that her eyes aren’t right.

 

* * *

 

Jeannie is a feminist, and she invites you along to her rallies. You go. It isn’t as if you have anything better to do, and it’s summer, so you told your fans you’d be going on a bit of a vacation and put the comic on hiatus. They’d all complained, and that hadn’t surprised you at all. At one of her rallies, Jeannie proposes to you -- she tells you it’s to break gender expectations. You agree, and at twenty-nine Jeannie Pierce becomes Jeannie Strider.

She tells you during your honeymoon that she wants a large family, one with at least three children. You want the exact opposite. You don’t want any, but you would be willing to settle for one, you tell her. She juts out her bottom lip, and by the time you’re thirty-five you have four children. Dirk, Roxy, Rose, and John. She took it upon herself to name them all, but you had told her one of them would be named John.

When she asked why, you told her you weren’t sure. You’d always liked that name. She had shrugged, and told you the first boy you had could be named John (she lied, the first boy you had was named Dirk). All of your children are blonde, like you. Jeannie tries to figure out why they’d all gotten your genes, but you kiss her temple and tell her not to worry about it. They’re probably all going to act like her. She smiles and hugs you.

 

* * *

 

Time goes by too fast. Before you know it, you’re fifty, and your eldest child is twenty-five. Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff is considered a classic, and that makes you laugh your ass off -- your godawful comic is considered “classic.” Jeannie doesn’t find it as funny as you, she tells you you should be proud of yourself for making something that can be passed down through so many generations.

You tell her you are, but that doesn’t make it any less funny that something you’d started when you were barely hitting puberty is now a classic. She rolls her pale blue eyes at you and continues to wash the dishes, using her shoulder to hold the phone to her ear. You ask her who she’s talking to, and it takes a second before she finally responds, “John.”

She tells you he wants to talk to you, eventually, and hands you the phone. “Yo, kiddo.” You say into the receiver. Jeannie raises a slim eyebrow and rolls her eyes, but you see the smile tugging at her lips. She dries the last few dishes and leaves you alone in the kitchen, and you focus on the paintings across from you while you listen to your son blab your ear off.

“Oh! Dad, dad, have you ever heard of John Crocker?” He asks excitedly, moreso than he’s already speaking to you, if that’s possible. You tell him no, you’ve never heard of anyone named John Crocker. “That’s sucky, dad. John Crocker was legendary! He’s this actor and comedian, okay, and he was so funny. I love his movies, you’ll have to watch one with me next time I come to visit.”

You laugh good-naturedly, something you were never interested in before. You used to be stoic, but having kids changes you. “Alright, fine. We’ll watch a John Crocker film.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, John makes you watch a John Crocker movie when he comes to visit. He brings a few, actually, and you tell him you’ll watch them all with him. Your reasoning is because his mother wants you to come to the fresh produce market with her, and you aren’t interested in going at all. This gives you an excuse to stay home. John snorts, popping the first movie into the DVD player and hopping onto the couch by your side.

The first movie is in black and white, but you admit, John Crocker is funny. You don’t usually laugh at movies, but you find yourself laughing at him. You aren’t sure what it is -- the way he delivers the jokes, maybe. Or the harsh tug in your chest whenever you hear him laugh, loud and bubbly. There’s a sense of familiarity. His laugh sounds like home, and you don’t know why or how but you know John Crocker.

A few movies in, everything is finally stained with color. A pathetic squeak forces it’s way out of your throat when you see his eyes, so bright, like two balls of blue electricity. They burn themselves into your brain, and you know them, you know them. They were always there, you remember those eyes, you remember that laugh, you remember John Crocker; but was that his name?

“Dad,” John calls, snapping you out of your daze. “You’re crying. Are you okay?”

You take a breather. “Fine. John Crocker looks like someone I knew once.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Weird.”

 

* * *

 

You’re seventy when Jeannie tells you she wants a divorce. You ask her why, you ask her if you’d done something wrong. She tells you no, you’re a good husband and father, but she just can’t do it anymore. That translates to she doesn’t love you anymore, and you’re sad to say you feel nothing when she signs the papers and packs her bags. You try to find someone new.

You meet a woman named Diane, and the two of you get married in Vegas. She has black hair and blistering blue eyes, but they’re still a touch off. You don’t tell her this, just like you never told Jeannie, because you don’t want to make the same mistake you had with the first girl, when you were only twelve. You and Diane move to Florida, because she tells you that’s her dream place to live.

You can tell your kids don’t want you to move, but they don’t tell you that. They only tell you they’re happy that you found someone new, and you tell them you are, too. They all keep in touch, but the only one of your children who calls you everyday is John; it’s too sweet a gesture for you to be annoyed by it. “Hey dad, what’s your favorite eye color?” He asks one day, and when you ask why he tells you he’s just curious.

You respond, “Electric blue,” and he does not ask again.

 

* * *

 

They diagnose you with cancer when you’re eighty-five, and tell you you have exactly one month left to live. All of your kids take breaks from their jobs to come spend your last days with you, and that’s when you realize you and Jeannie had raised them to be wonderful people. Dirk, Rose, and Roxy all find a hotel to stay at, but John tells them he’s going to stay with you.

The three of them complain about him always wanting to be the favorite, and all he does is shrug and grin. “If I am, I am.” He responds, and you smile fondly. You had always admired his sense of humor and endless sarcasm; he’s like you in every way. Diane says this one night, while she’s sitting in the chair in the corner of the room knitting a pair of gloves for John’s three year old son.

“Yeah, I know.” You respond, ruffling John’s hair. He swats your hands away, but there’s a wide smile threatening to split his face in half. The three of you talk all afternoon, and John is the first to fall asleep. Then Diane, and then, you.

That night you dream of blue eyes like electricity, and you do not wake up ever again.

 

* * *

 

You blink your eyes a few times and sit up, confused. Hadn’t you just died? Yes, you remember it -- peacefully in your sleep, they’d said. Your kids had cried. John had to excuse himself to go sob in the bathroom, and you felt sick to your stomach watching him. As a ghost, you’d been rendered helpless. But then you weren’t anymore, you weren’t anything; and you thought that was the end.

But here you are, waking up somewhere that is vaguely familiar. You stand up and your legs wobble, but you don’t topple over like you think you will. Instead, you manage to stand straight and tall, investigating your surroundings. Where are you? Where is this? Who are you? Are you still Dave Strider, or are you someone else, now?

You’re much younger, you note. Maybe about fifteen. You reach your hands up to touch your face, and you feel your shades, rounded. The ones from Stiller. But if you’re someone else, now, they can’t possibly be from him. The outfit you’re wearing looks almost like a costume, right down to the red cape drawn around your shoulders.

“Dave!” Someone screams, and then you’re knocked over. Back to square one.

The affectionate stranger digs their face into your neck, and you feel their tears wetting your shirt. “Woah there, tiger.” You murmur jokingly, rubbing circles in their back. They, or rather he, finally looks up and locks eyes with you. And you have to take your shades off to make sure you’re seeing this right --

because it’s him, it’s John Crocker. His eyes are blue like electricity.

“John?” You whisper, and he smiles -- yes, there’s no mistaking those buckteeth -- shaking his head.

“Duh, dummy! I thought you were dead. I love you, you know that, right?”

You want to cry, but something in your mind tells you that’d be so uncool, especially if you did it in front of John. “Yeah, I--” You falter for a moment. You remember the first girl whose eyes weren’t right, and Jeannie whose eyes weren’t right, and Diane whose eyes were closest but still weren’t right. And you remember John Crocker, comedy genius who was deceased in your world, whose eyes were right. Not just right, _perfect_. And this is him, you know. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently people are personally victimized by my fics. I wonder why.
> 
> Hope this was okay, guys.


End file.
